What She Lost

by Melissa W Hunter

  I slumped in my seat at the kitchen table. “You look so tired, darling,” he said, coming to my side and putting a hand to my cheek. “I know this has been an ordeal. Go rest and get your strength back. When Rubin returns tonight, we’ll know more.”

  I let him lead me back to bed without a word. I was exhausted, but part of me knew it wasn’t just because of what I’d been through. I longed to go back to the day before, when I had almost told him about the baby. I wanted to see his face light up with the news, with the promise of a child he could love as much as the one he had lost. I wanted to give him that joy, that gift.

  “Harry,” I said softly as he propped a pillow behind my head and sat beside me, holding my hand. “I have something to tell you.”

  “What is it, my love?” His brow knit in concern, but I smiled and put my hand on his cheek.

  “I’ve known for a little while now, but I wanted to be sure.”

  “Be sure of what?”

  “Harry, I’m going to have a baby.”

  For a moment, Harry stared at me blankly. Then his eyes widened in astonishment. His mouth opened, but the words were frozen in his throat. I nodded, reaching for his hand and placing it on my belly. “We are going to have a baby. I want to give you a son, Harry. A beautiful baby boy. I want that more than anything.”

  His hand lovingly stroked my stomach, wordless. Then he leaned forward and laid his head on my middle, kissing the small bump. My fingers entwined themselves in his blond hair. When he looked up at me, tears rimmed his eyes.

  “Really?” he whispered.

  I nodded again. “I want to name him after my father,” I said, imagining the baby boy I was now certain would enter our lives. “And after your son.”

  “After Hirsch,” Harry whispered, nodding, resting his head on my stomach once more and holding me close. We lay like that for a few wonderful moments, and I thought I felt again the small flutter deep inside.

  “Are you happy?” I asked, wanting to be sure. He sat up and cupped my face in his hands. When he spoke, his words were choked with emotion. “You’ve made me happier than I can ever say. Thank you, Sarah. I love you. I love you more than anything.”

  He bent his head to mine, and our lips touched, softly at first, then more passionately. For the moment, we forgot everything else, all the terror of the past two days and all the uncertainty of what was to come. We fell into each other once more, losing ourselves in one another.

  Rubin returned that evening. He gave three short knocks in succession, followed by a fourth knock. Harry moved to the door and quickly let him in. I was immediately concerned by the look on his usually jovial face. His lips were turned down in a frown, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He was dressed in dark clothes and tall black boots. He began to unwrap a scarf from his neck, snow falling into a low mound at his feet.

  “I tried everything in my power,” he said, “but it’s no good.”

  “What do you mean?” Harry asked as I handed Rubin a glass of warm tea.

  “You don’t happen to have anything stronger?” he half-joked, and Harry went to pour him a shot of whiskey. We moved into the small living room, where the curtains were still drawn over the windows.

  “They are looking to make examples out of people,” Rubin said once Harry and I had settled onto the sofa, our hands clasped. “There is a lot of unrest since the Poles have taken over power. The town is now under their jurisdiction. My superiors are helping aid the transition. And some of those in authority aren’t happy to find that …” His voice trailed off, his face growing red.

  “To find that the Jews have moved in,” Harry said bitterly.

  Rubin ran a hand through his hair, an apologetic look in his eyes. “I don’t agree with it, Harry, but, yes. You’re correct.”

  “Do we not have a right to try to get back what we lost as well?” Harry demanded. “To try to make a future for ourselves?”

  I squeezed his hand, hoping to calm him. I could see the rage on his face.

  “Yes, of course you do,” Rubin said. “But, Harry, I don’t think this is where you’ll find that future.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look,” Rubin said, straddling a chair and regarding us soberly. “This is my fault. I wanted to give you both a gift, so I purchased the calf from a Polish farmer. I should have suspected his intentions were less than honorable. He asked why I wanted the cow as I’m a soldier, after all, and I told him about you, Sarah. How I wanted to give you a wedding gift since you’d both lost so much.” Rubin glanced at me with eyes that begged forgiveness. “After we made the purchase, he went to the Polish police and reported the cow stolen. I’ve tried to explain that this farmer is the real criminal, that he took my money in exchange for the cow, that you are innocent, but they won’t listen. They just won’t listen. This is not an isolated episode. There was even an incident at the local Jewish committee office by a number of returning Poles.”

  “Sam was right,” I said softly, staring down at my hands and shaking my head in disbelief. “He always knew this was going to happen. He said we needed to protect ourselves.”

  We sat in silence for a moment before Rubin turned to Harry and said, “I have received intelligence that the Russians and Americans are in talks over control of Europe. This part of Poland, now that it is Polish again, will most certainly fall under the Communist regime. It may not be easy for many going forward.” Again, he looked at us imploringly, the unspoken words hanging in the air—it may not be easy for Jews. “Already they are putting up blocks, preventing people from moving easily across borders. Once the borders are closed, it might be impossible to leave.”

  Rubin knelt before us. “You must go tonight.” It wasn’t a suggestion. “They will be back for Sarah by morning. This time the charges will be more severe since she escaped. We cannot delay.”

  My heart thudded in my chest, and I wrapped my arms around my stomach protectively. Harry sat beside me, lost in thought. Part of me wanted to scream, “Yes, Harry! We must go!” But I couldn’t find my voice.

  “Where will we go?” Harry finally asked.

  “I need to get you to the American side of Germany,” Rubin said. “It’s the least I can do for getting you into this situation. I was drunk and stupid. Now let me help you. I have a contact at a displaced persons camp in Nuremberg—”

  “A camp?” I whispered. The word sent a chill up my spine. I looked around the small apartment I had so painstakingly turned into a home for Harry and me—the home where our child was conceived. I remembered, as though it were another lifetime, leaving my family’s home in Olkusz, holding my mother’s hand as she told me not to look back. I wondered if we would ever stop running.

  “I know the idea of starting over is hard, but it’s safer for you there,” Rubin said sympathetically. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but Poland is not your home.”

  “What about Pinky and the business?” Harry muttered under his breath.

  “I will help them cross the border as well,” Rubin pledged. “You will be together in Nuremberg.”

  “And Sam?” I pleaded.

  “I’ll do everything I can.”

  “What about Ruth?” I asked, remembering her pale face in the darkness as she handed Harry the key she had stolen.

  Rubin looked at me with a sad expression. “She’s already been relocated. When they realized you were missing, they turned their attention first to who might have helped you. In their eyes, that’s the greater crime. Once they realized the keys were stolen, it wasn’t hard for them to figure out who was responsible.”

  Rubin’s words left me cold. I couldn’t fathom Ruth’s bravery. “She risked her job and her safety for me?” I asked incredulously, feeling so helpless and unworthy. “Why would she do that? We owe her so much,” I whispered. “How can we ever repay her?”

  “How do you kn
ow all this?” Harry asked Rubin.

  Rubin downed the rest of his whiskey before answering, “I have my ways.”

  We were silent, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on us all. Harry glanced at me, and I saw how pale he looked. I squeezed his hand. “Please, Harry,” I said, “I think we should listen to him. Wherever we go, at least we’ll be together.” I placed his hand on my stomach and he met my eyes. Then he nodded thoughtfully.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “We’ll go with you, Rubin.”

  Fifty

  Polish–German border, late January 1946

  We left in the middle of the night, crossing the border to the American side of Germany in a gray predawn. Harry sat behind Rubin on the motorbike, and I sat in the small attached sidecar, surrounded by our few bags and belongings. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, hugging my most precious cargo close. The moon was obscured behind thick, dark clouds, and snow fell silently on our shoulders, filling the tracks made by the tires. I shivered in my seat, terrified that at any minute, we would be stopped, and I would be arrested and taken back to jail.

  When we reached the border, Rubin quietly communicated with the guards, showing them papers and gesturing to us as we watched. Tendrils of our breath rose into the cold night air. I took in the red, white, and blue flags posted on either side of the border gate, watching them ripple in the cold wind. Their white stars shone brighter than those in the sky. The guards at the border watched Harry and I as they spoke to Rubin, and I was sure they would turn us away. But as we were waved across and Rubin revved the engine, I closed my eyes and relaxed against the seat. I pictured my child, growing up safe and sound, apart from the horrors we had witnessed, on soil untainted by hate and persecution. Maybe soon—maybe now—we would find home.

  Epilogue

  Cincinnati, Ohio, 2000

  I visit my grandmother often. She is a bit of a hoarder; every tabletop, shelf, nightstand, and counter is covered with souvenirs and trinkets she’s collected over her lifetime. A picture of the Rebbe sits on her nightstand next to a photograph of my grandpa Harry. I check on her condo when she’s gone for half the year in Israel, spending time on the sunny beaches of Netanya with her cousins and their families. It was there, in Israel, that she came back to life after my grandfather died. It was there, with her cousin Gutcha, that she found happiness again. The day she came home from Israel for the first time, after a year’s absence, I hadn’t immediately recognized her. She’d waved at us as she walked down the Jetway, her neck adorned in colorful, flowy scarves and her hair dyed a bright red.

  “Who is that?” my brother had asked, and I’d blinked and said, “That’s Bubbe!”

  Gone was the sad, dejected woman I’d remembered; in her place was a giddy, excited woman who hugged me tightly and exclaimed, “Look at you! What a shayna punim ! My, you have grown!” She had smelled of perfume, and her lipstick left stains on my cheeks. As my mother and I had helped her unpack, she’d moved around the room like a bird in flight, saying over and over, “You should have seen me! Everyone loved me there!”

  In the years since, she has settled into her independence, enjoying traveling, shopping, and cooking. We spend a lot of time together. Since she doesn’t drive (she told me once that she’d only had her license for a short time—my grandfather had insisted she not drive, that it was too dangerous), I pick her up once a week to take her grocery shopping and out to brunch. Sometimes we come back and watch movies together in her crowded living room. Our favorites are Crossing Delancey and Fiddler on the Roof. She hosts Shabbat dinners for our family, making matzo balls only she knows how to make, hard as rocks and requiring a fork and knife to cut through—a family favorite.

  At my wedding shower, guests were asked to bring a cooking-themed gift accompanied by a favorite recipe. The box my grandmother placed in my hands was large and wrapped in shiny pink paper with white ribbon. I unwrapped a soup pot and ladle and found a VHS tape nestled in tissue paper. As I held it up, my aunt explained that she and my brother had filmed my grandmother making her famous matzo ball soup—she was never strong at writing in English. We played the video and laughed as we watched my grandmother move about her kitchen, talking with her back to the camera, her apron tied around her waist, explaining how she didn’t have an actual recipe—it was her mother’s soup. She added a pinch of this and a dash of that. And my brother and aunt followed behind her, asking, “What did you just add there, Bubbe? How much salt did you put in? Do you use parsley and carrots? How much oil? And how long do you let the matzo balls sit?” When the tape ended, we all applauded, and my grandmother glowed.

  This is the Bubbe I will always remember—the happy, flirty Bubbe. The Bubbe who loves clothes and jewelry and perfume and took me shopping when I was twelve and bought me a leopard print mini-skirt that made my mother gasp. The Bubbe who gossiped about this neighbor or that family member. The Bubbe who spoke of characters from her favorite soap operas as if they were real, living beings and read the Star or National Enquirer.

  One day when I visit, I stop and look at the photographs framed on her wall. I gaze at the images, the pictures of myself as a child, my brother and cousin, photographs taken at family gatherings and holidays, and, most recent of all, my wedding portrait. I smile at my favorite picture of my grandmother and grandfather kissing in their backyard, their arms thrown around each other, framed by a dense woods. But mixed with these are faded black-and-white photos of family members I don’t know.

  I had learned over the years how my grandmother had lost most of her family in the war, all but her brother Sam, who now lived with his family in Kansas. But I never knew the details. A memory surfaces as I survey the pictures, and I turn to my grandmother curiously. “Bubbe,” I say, sitting beside her on her plush sofa and sinking into the soft cushions. “You once mentioned the name Esther. Who is she?”

  My grandmother grows pensive, and I see a flash of something in her dark brown eyes before she glances down at her lap. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. I know enough of her past to know she’s experienced things I could never imagine. I know she is still haunted by these memories, these ghosts. I remember all too well the depression she suffered after my grandfather died. I didn’t want to bring her more sadness or remind her of that time.

  But she looks at me and smiles and settles against the sofa herself. She puts her arm around me and I lean against her soft body, so like a warm pillow. “Let me tell you about my sister,” she says in the thick accent that I love. And she draws my hand into hers and begins to tell me her story.

  Author’s Note

  When I think of my grandmother, I think of her hands. They were always soft and smooth, the tips of her fingers plump as miniature pillows. My grandmother took pride in her hands. She scheduled weekly trips to the manicurist, so her nails were always buffed and polished to perfection. When she washed dishes, she wore yellow rubber gloves. I had never seen anyone wear gloves except in Palmolive commercials. Lotions and creams lined her bathroom counter and bedside table. Large rings adorned her fingers in shades of turquoise and opal white, emerald and ruby red. On the many occasions when we sat and talked, she would take my arm, draw it across her lap, and run her fingertips along the soft inside of my arm, wrist to elbow. And she would hum a quiet tune, perhaps from her childhood.

  Then the words would come. She enjoyed words, even though she rarely read and spent most of her time watching television. She often gossiped about this neighbor or that family member. She always reported something she’d seen on the evening news or the morning talk shows. She even spoke of characters from her favorite soap operas as if they were real, living beings. She would argue stories she’d read from the Star or National Enquirer. She was not cultured or educated, but occasionally, her words were heavy with history. To me, she spoke of a world long forgotten: she spoke of war and loss and family members whose ghosts still lurked in the shadows and dark corners of her home.
When I looked into her brown eyes, I saw in their reflection the small apartment where she’d lived with her family, in the Polish shtetl where she grew to be a young woman.

  Before taking the name of Sala in a crowded immigration office on Ellis Island, she was known as Chaya Sarah—or more affectionately by her family as Vilda Chaya, the “Wild One.” To me, she was Grandma Sala, or Bubbe. And on one of those afternoons, I sat down beside my grandmother with a small camcorder in hand and asked her to tell me the story of her life.

  It is this interview, almost two hours in length, that I used as inspiration for What She Lost. I attempted to stay as true to my grandmother’s experiences as possible, filling in the gaps with research and adding my own memories here and there. I hope that this story honors the memory not only of those in my family who perished but of the countless others who lost their lives in the Holocaust. Your lives had meaning. You are not forgotten.

  Acknowledgments

  I couldn’t have written What She Lost without help from many individuals. I thank Rachel, my editor, for her wonderful feedback and advice and all my beta readers for their encouragement and keen eyes. And the fellow pea in my pod—you know who you are!

  Thanks to my publisher, Holly, and all those at Cynren Press for treating my manuscript with such love and care. I’m proud to be part of the Cynren family.

  I have to say a special and heartfelt thank-you to my two wonderful grandmothers—one whose story of hardship and perseverance always inspired me, and one whose generosity of love and spirit always nourished me. I’m blessed to have you both in my life to this day.

  Deepest thanks to my mom and dad, whose unconditional, selfless love has been a lifelong gift. They always allowed me to follow my dreams and believe that anything is possible.